You And I
by Vokal
Summary: After Sydney arrives in Ireland to apprehend him, Sark is forced to make a sickening choice between the past and the present - life and death.


She crouched beneath the small outcrop above the door to escape the thrashing rain, droplets clinging to her hair and clothes as she waited for a reply.

Her fists pounded on the door in rhythm with her heart, her breath no more than forced, sporadic bursts of desperation.

Sydney breathed in the warm smell of the ageing door with tiny flecks of paint peeling from their embrace with the wood, trying determinedly to break from their fate.

She knocked again, her knuckles almost raw, and begged silently for a response.

He saw her standing in his doorway as he approached. He stopped in the middle of the narrow cobbled street, the crisp Irish wind lashing cold rain against his face, and wondered why she had come - after all this time.

She seemed so small - so fragile as she pushed herself against the door in a futile effort to avoid the rain, and the fear he had at first felt when he saw her dissipated.

He thought he had left this behind years ago. That's why he had come here, to Ireland. He smirked. Interestingly enough, when he had escaped the espionage industry a few years ago and fled to Ireland, it was the first time he had ever been to the country, and yet for so long it was the place he had claimed to have come from. After a while the lie had become real – well, real enough, and coming to Ireland seemed like the logical thing to do. In a sense, he was coming home.

And now, Sydney had too. Sark ran a hand through his wet hair, blinking away the drops of water that fell into his eyes.

He walked toward her slowly, the sound of the rain on the ground drowning out his footsteps. 

She turned to face him as he placed a bag of groceries beside him and slipped his key into the rusting lock clinging desperately to the rotting door. 

As silent as it had seemed, she had been a spy for a large proportion of her adult life, and sensed his approach long before she saw him standing next to her.

She touched his hand as he pushed the door open and he turned to look at her, his brilliant blue eyes penetrating her very being.

Gone was the violence she was so accustomed to seeing in them, gone too was the mischievous flash and the smirk that told her he knew something she did not and would always be one step ahead of her.

All that remained was a deep, impenetrable sadness and the same shadow of darkness that they had possessed so many years ago.

He looked away suddenly, pushing the door open, its hinges screaming in protest.

Inside, the house was dark, the air stale, heavy drapes blocking out all light attempting to enter through large, fractured windows, cracks seeping over the glass like the veins of a tired, old man. Paper was flaking off the walls like a snake shedding its skin and a flame crackled pitifully in the fireplace.

The house, like its owner, was dying.

"You look well." Sydney's voice was weak, unsure.

Sark smiled mutedly.

"You look sad…" He looked up at her again, the moonlight filtering in from the open door catching in his eyes.

He knew there were a thousand better ways to say it, but nothing could replace the irrevocable truth in his simple words.

"I've come to bring you in…" Sydney spoke determinedly this time. "There's a team of agents waiting nearby… waiting for my signal."

Sark tensed. "Why now? I've been out of the game for going on four years. I'm useless."

Tears prickled at her eyes.

"But you're still a criminal. They sent me because… because of our history together, because you would trust me."

He walked to the kitchen quietly, placing the items from his bag methodically on the bench.

She noticed his hands shaking.

"So you're still an agent… after… after everything that happened?" He swallowed dryly as he tried to change the topic.

"Yeah, you know me…"

He looked up and smiled at her genuinely. "So much like myself… addicted."

Sydney avoided his gaze. "I serve my country. It's what I do best. It's the only thing I can do."

He placed a can of baked beans on the top shelf in the bare cupboard, then, changing his mind, moved it to the second shelf.

Sydney tried to avoid looking at the bruising on his arms.

"We were all surprised when you left the spy business."

She sat down on a stool adjoining the kitchen bench.

"I rather thought you'd pleased…" He smirked characteristically and Sydney thought she saw traces of the old Sark lingering on the corners of the smile.

"Well…" She cocked her head to the side and smiled at him "… there's no shortage of bad guys out there, you were easily replaced."

He chuckled at her, rubbing absently at a white bandage on his neck.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears.

"Was it because… because of what happened with us?"

Sark glanced over at her quickly.

"No."

"Then why'd you leave? I mean… why'd you stop doing it?"

He breathed in deeply.

"I didn't want to, Syd. But after we… after, what happened, I couldn't keep gunning after you, facing you off. Eventually, one of us was going to have to kill the other, and frankly, you're a good agent, Sydney, but not good enough to beat me, I'd ultimately win and I didn't want to have to kill you."

She nodded slowly. "What happened… that night… it was a mistake though. It didn't mean anything. I still hated you, hell, I probably hated you more."

He rubbed his bandage again.

"And now?"

She sighed. "And now… nothing has changed. You're one of the bad guys; I'm one of the good guys. And you're coming back with me… to prison."

She sounded the same, exactly the same. He winced as he realised that he had been the one to change. She never had. She never would. Still resisting her feelings. Still playing the hero – the patriot. Still believing in the misguided notions of good and evil instead of what was real – what was right in front of her.

He sighed. "There's no point, Syd."

She looked at him sceptically. "Four years doesn't clear you of everything you've done, Sark."

He gripped the side of the bench. He hated the way she said his name.

"I'm not going back there. I'm not going to die in some cell like a caged rat." He spat the words out, tears stinging his eyes.

She reached for his hand. He pulled away.

"Sark please. There's no other way. There are agents everywhere. You can't escape. If you try to run, they'll get you."

"It doesn't matter, Sydney. Better a bullet than that cell."

"If that's they way you feel, than fine. Give up on life."

"What have I got to live for anyway?"

She swallowed back tears, forcing back what she was feeling but would never be able to tell him.

He nodded. "Exactly…"

Sydney watched as he made his way to the door. She mentally calculated the time it would take for the bullet from the sniper on the roof of the building across the street to reach him.

"Sark!"

Her voice stopped him. 

He didn't turn to face her as he spoke.

"If I'm going to die, I want to die the way I was meant to – on the run, free, and by a bullet."

The tears streamed down her face. Her voice was only just above a whisper. 

"You said… that night… that you could change. That you could change for me. Did you mean it? Or was it all just a lie?"

Sark finally faced her.

"Sydney, our whole world was a lie… everything. And you said it yourself, that night meant nothing. It was a mistake."

"But if you could change, could we start again? No lies?"

"I have changed, Sydney. It's you that can't. You'll always be the agent, the patriot. Nothing will change that."

"I've got to bring you in, it's my job."

He paused, walking close to her.

"There's no point to it Sydney. I'm dying."

She looked up at him, and in one sickening moment understood the bruising and the bandage as the truth hurtled through her. She fought the urge to throw up.

"The first time I was captured by Sloane he gave me a dose of radiation so that he could monitor it's degradation in my blood stream, and consequently, track me."

"I remember." Sydney answered blankly – stunned. "He said it was non-lethal"

Sark sniggered. "Yeah, he also said you worked for a covert unit of the CIA when in fact you were in the employ of a terrorist network determined to take over the world."

He looked at her expression and sighed.

"I had a blood transfusion – but it wasn't in time. The radiation affected my body. I have leukaemia."

She swayed slightly, her eyes blurring as tears welled again.

"What do I do?"

"You're going to do your job, and you're going to take that gun you always conceal in your left boot, and you're gonna shoot me, or I'm going to escape."

She shook her head.

He bent down and took the gun from her boot. She made no attempt to stop him. He placed it gently in her hand, curling her fingers around it.

She pleaded - her voice soft. "Sark, don't make me do this… If you try and run, I will shoot you."

He nodded.

"I know. No cell - no disease. I'm going out the way I was meant to."

She stood suddenly, angry.

"No, asshole, you were supposed to die old, happy, quietly, in bed while your wife slept soundly beside you."

Tears flowed uninhibitedly down her flushed cheeks. 

He reached a hand up and brushed them away tenderly.

"That life was never meant for you and I. That choice was made for us a long time ago."

"Screw project Christmas! Screw fate!" She screamed at him, flailing her fists weakly at his chest, the gun stagnant in her right hand. "Sark please! Don't make me…"  
  


She sobbed as he embraced her for the second and last time in his short life.

He had never thought he had the capacity to love anyone. All he had known was hate. Maybe they were the same anyway. Love and hate. Two entities, so different, but unequivocally the same wretched thing, tied eternally to each other in an unending struggle that neither would ever win. He didn't know. 

But he did know he loved Sydney. Loved and hated her at the same time. He hated her for not loving him and he hated her because he loved her so much. He loved her violently, with every aspect of his being, so much so that at times it felt as if he existed merely because of her. 

But she would never feel the same way. She would always choose her country and the pathetic concepts of truth and justice, over him, over his love for her. That's why he knew she would do it – kill him. It was the only thing she could do.

He kissed her, slowly, deeply, passionately, and then turned and walked away.

She rolled the gun over in her hand, her finger resting tentatively on the trigger.

Her hands shook fiercely as she took aim.

Sark heard the gunshot and smiled as the bullet tore through his flesh, blood flicking the peeling walls as the lead pierced his heart. His legs gave way and he collapsed onto his knees in an almost mocking portrayal of prayer. 

He whispered her name as he fell onto his side and she leant over him, her tears mixing with his life fluids seeping into the floorboards.

"I'm so sorry…" She sobbed and dropped to the ground, grasping his hand.

"It's what I wanted… And for the record, I let you win" He smiled, so much like his old self that Sydney had trouble believing they were really here, now, her cradling his dead body to her chest.

Outside the rain beat down steadily in a primeval chant, calling him from her, and into eternity.


End file.
